


Kitty Kitty, Bang Bang

by dugindeep (hotsauce)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Curses, Dean is a cat, Gen, Sam is Not Amused
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 02:02:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13401108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotsauce/pseuds/dugindeep
Summary: Sam and Dean hit Santa Barbara on the basis of missing persons reports, Plain Jane types who seemingly disappear without a trace. When they get too close to the problem, Dean falls victim to the same fate. There’s far too much research and not enough answers. But, the real question is which of them has it worse: Sam, who has to figure out the entire case on his own with no help from his brother and the inability to keep his cool. Or Dean, who now has four paws, three eyelids, and a batch of whiskers. They say curiosity killed the cat, but Sam and Dean aren’t going down without a fight.





	Kitty Kitty, Bang Bang

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [samdean_otp](https://samdean-otp.livejournal.com/)'s 2011 Mini Bang.
> 
> Art by [ordinaryink](https://ordinaryink.livejournal.com/): [ART POST](http://ordinaryink.livejournal.com/34901.html#cutid1)

The apartment is modest, but filled with pretty people. Décor is sleek and simple, and the few women at the gathering are adorned in glittery and expensive cuts of fabric. Men vary from uniquely handsome to utterly gorgeous, the woman could strut catwalks and star on the covers of magazines, and everyone smiles and laughs as they drink high-end mixers and wine.

In the kitchen, the two hosts argue quietly – one in a shiny, cream-colored halter, and the other in a much simpler, dark shirt and jeans that are the nicest thing in her closet. They’re sisters and roommates, but have little else in common.

The older one in cream is frowning and shifting against the counter and harshly whispering. “I don’t understand why you’re being like this tonight.”

“These are your friends,” the younger sister argues back. “I don’t like these kinds of things and you know that.”

“You could at least try.” It’s said softly and with a bit of encouragement, but she still seems annoyed. It’s followed by a gentle tug at the edge of her younger sister’s shirt, pulling it into place so the v-neck aligns better with a necklace she also repositions. She runs her fingers through the ends of her younger sister’s dark hair and frowns at the way it hangs limply over her shoulders.

“I’m not like you and your friends,” the youngest replies as she fidgets with her own shirt.

“But you’re not even trying,” is the murmured reply. Then she twirls her sister’s hair to give the appearance of a soft curl before returning to the party.

It’s just past midnight when the young girl steps out on the balcony. It’s dark, sure, with only a handful of streetlamps dotting the path throughout the apartment complex, but the moon above allows her to see out into the distance. There isn’t much there, just soft rolls of land that lead down to the next street. That road’s just as empty as the complex, and she shivers with the tiny bite of chill in the air and the eerie silence that surrounds her.

On the other side of the balcony doors, the dinner party goes on, but she can’t hear any of it no matter how loud guests get while arguing about the newest reality show and whose turn it is to refill drinks. She huddles into herself, sets her elbows on the short wall of the balcony, and leans forward. Her hair spills over one shoulder and she tips her head to the side so she can better observe the landscaping below.

The grass seems black at this hour, but she can make out the lighter shades of small bushes scattered near the light cement walkway. Between two little bundles of twigs and leaves, there’s another soft shape that she keeps staring at, unable to make out what it is. The longer she stares, the less defined it is and at some point, she swears it’s moving, shaking just a bit.

It’s the wine, she’s sure. She’s had a couple glasses to get through the social anxiety, and it’s dark outside, too dark. Her mind’s playing tricks on her, or maybe she needs glasses.

The more she stares, the more she thinks she sees, but she’s still so sure she’s imagining it. She’s likely creating the image of the small ball of shadow sliding to the left and definitely dreaming up the thin part branching out. Then it steps forward and she makes out pointed ears and paws stepping forward as the animal takes shape. Four legs, a head, a tail, all covered in dark fur that makes it even less discernable in the middle of the night.

_Meow._

She flinches away from the ledge and covers her mouth, covers up the shocked squeaky laugh that still sounds too loud out here. She leans over the railing and sees the feline step closer to the building. Her heart races even as she’s on the second floor and doesn’t have a fear of cats. It’s still a surprise, and she chuckles at herself for it.

The cat stops, firm on four paws, and lifts its head to her. She can see a flicker of moonlight cross its eyes – golden globes lighting up its face – as it stares at her. There is no way she can stop staring back, completely transfixed by this creature, and her mind goes blank for just a second.

_Hiss._

She jumps again and takes three steps back when the cat races forward and under the balcony. It’s so foolish, she knows, to be this afraid of a cat that can’t even reach her up here. Still, she presses her hand to her mouth and steadies her breath.

Something clamps onto her elbow and she shrieks. She spins in place to find one of tonight’s guests smiling fondly at her.

“Hi,” he says simply with a quick blink of his hazel eyes.

She presses her palm to her chest and slaps at him with the other, nervously laughing. “You scared the crap outta me!”

He chuckles with her and pulls her hand away from another hit, stopping her from hitting him again and holding gently. “You’re fine. Stop worrying so much.”

She would argue, the words are on the tip of her tongue, but his pale skin stands out from his slick, jet-black hair, sculpted away from his face to show off high cheek bones and a defined jaw. She can’t help but stare in awe.

He’s smooth like he’s been sculpted from clay, and she can’t stop the speed of her heart increasing with him standing so close. She’d been admiring him throughout the night, but a girl like her doesn’t stand a chance with a guy like this. Her face is soft and round and her body lacks defined curves. She’s certain he exclusively dates models and beds royalty. He must.

He tips his head and his eyes reach into her, as if reading everything bubbling beneath the surface. His smile softens as he squeezes her hand and she stretches her fingers out before holding right back.

“You’re nervous,” he says plainly.

“Just a little, yeah.”

His lips spread wide as he smiles, boasting straight, sparkling teeth. “You’re cute when you’re nervous.”

 _Cute_ , she thinks. Cute is a 13-year-old in pigtails. Cute is the girl next door who’s picked last at the dance.

Tipping his head again, he continues to assess her. His sight carries over her face and down her clothes before sweeping back up. “You wish you were beautiful.”

She flushes and tries to pull her hand back, but he won’t let go. “Who doesn’t?” she returns with a bit of annoyance.

He brings his other hand up to her face and his open palm curls with the shape of it, but never touches. “You want to be beautiful?” he asks this time.

“Yeah, of – of course,” she stutters out.

Leaning in close, his hand settles within her hair and she shivers with the soft touch of his fingertips along her scalp. He whispers at her other ear, “I can make you beautiful.”

She laughs to herself, only letting out a strangled sort of noise. “Is your father a plastic surgeon?”

He chuckles with her, but it’s darker than the night, and it tingles down to her toes. “It’s better than that.” His breath ghosts over her ear and his hand in her hair starts combing through the long tendrils. “I can make it happen. Just tell me what you want.”

There’s a hard pressure in her chest and she wants to run back inside, because this is absolutely ridiculous. This guy she’s only met tonight, and hasn’t said more than two words to before this now, is promising her something impossible without hours of reconstructive surgery. But all she can hear is his steady breathing and the only thing she feels is a barely-there wind across her cheeks and the gentle touch of his hand in her hair.

This night has spun her over and she feels like she’s under some spell that forces her words out. “I want to be gorgeous and thin. I want guys to look at me, to want me. And I want everything to be easy because I’m beautiful.”

The hand in her hair closes to a soft fist and he pulls to the side, baring her neck so he can bend down to it. “As you wish,” he murmurs just before licking a slow path from her collarbone up to her ear.

She feels feverish and her heart races, but she can’t stop the pressure of his tongue, flat and wide along her skin. The thumping in her chest is far too hard, she swears her heart’s about to break free, which makes her panic rise and her lungs stop functioning.

And then she faints.

***

The next noise outside is the balcony door sliding open as the older sister steps over the threshold, looking out into the darkness.

“Jenny?” she calls out.

No one answers, and she says it again.

“Jenny, you out here? You’ve been gone a while and everyone’s heading out.”

When still it’s too silent, she leans over the ledge to look up and down the walkway below the apartment.

“ _Jenny_!” she yells.

Only a tabby cat comes out from under the balcony, dark chocolate hair with cream fur threaded through its coat.

_Meow._

Seated in a hard plastic booth, Sam pulls a printed web article across the top of the local paper he’d been reading. His eyes roam the page, taking in the words that describe their next possible case: missing girls in California.

Dean drops into the seat across the way, slides a tray right over Sam’s paperwork, and gives a crooked, tired smile. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

Sam makes a face at both his disrupted research and the pathetic looking sandwich on his side the tray. He lifts the thin, smashed bun to discover the thinnest chicken breast he’s ever seen smothered in cheese and mayonnaise. His mouth slips into a bigger frown; this looks disgusting. “Really?”

“You said no red meat,” Dean mumbles around his large bite of a greasy cheeseburger.

He did say that, but he’d imagined something a bit healthier, more his style, less sloppy. He looks up to the menu board plastered above the counter just fifteen feet away, wincing as he reads over the choices in the dive of a corner shop they’d stopped at – the first restaurant in sight for the last hour. Nothing but burgers, hot dogs, and fried creations, so he supposes a chicken sandwich is the best he’s going to get right now.

Sam sighs and turns the tray ninety degrees to get the food away from him and his paperwork. “So,” he says to get Dean’s attention. “Three girls gone in a month. Another handful throughout the year. All disappeared overnight.”

“Girls run away all the time. Look at you,” he says with a big, burger grin.

“I don’t think it was willingly,” Sam says with a pointed look. When Dean doesn’t break from his food, Sam goes on. “They were all at parties with friends. All within a five-mile radius in Santa Barbara. And there’ve been no reports of any suspicious activity by the police department. They’re all listed as missing persons with no leads.”

“Maybe they ran off to L.A. to hit the big screen.” He guzzles down a third of his extra large soda then nods to his left. “Pass the ketchup?”

Sam nudges the red plastic bottle towards his brother and watches in discomfort as Dean squeezes the hell out of it to create a ketchup lake in the middle of his plate then drags a handful of fries through it, stuffing the whole mess in his mouth. The entire scene turns Sam’s stomach and he frowns at his own sandwich, unable to stomach the ooze and grease.

“Yeah, so,” Sam starts again. “The latest girl went missing on Saturday night. Her sister said she went out on the balcony, and once their party was winding down, the girl was gone. All she found was a pile of clothes on the balcony.”

Dean perks up at that, mouth opening to show mashed fries and ketchup. Sam winces then rolls his eyes when Dean asks, “No clothes?” He sits up in the booth and leans forward in interest. “There’re girls missing without their clothes?”

Sam looks down to his papers just so he doesn’t have to see the sleazy grin he’s sure his brother’s got on his face. “It would appear so.”

“Are they hot?”

Pushing one of his print outs forward, Sam twists his mouth. “See for yourself.”

Dean tilts his head in a thoughtful way and lifts a shoulder. “I guess she’s alright.”

“’Cause she’s got clothes on,” Sam points out.

“Probably,” Dean admits. “Where’s all this going down again?”

“Santa Barbara.”

“And all three disappeared in their birthday suits?” he asks.

Sam looks over a few other print-outs. “Seems like it.”

Dean sucks down another third of his soda, straw squeaking as he hits the bottom of the cup. “Alright. I’m game.” He points at Sam’s abandoned plate and looks up. “You gonna finish that?”

With a grimace, Sam shakes his head, and Dean grins and pulls it closer.

***

“Was there anything strange before she disappeared?” Dean asks as they’re led into a rather plain bedroom.

Under the guise of Feds investigating missing persons in the area, they’d easily made their way into the house and this conversation. When the missing girl’s sister had opened the door, Dean quickly smiled at her, far too obvious when admiring the sleek curves of her body and her magazine-worthy face. She didn’t pause for a second when Dean asked if they could come inside to look around.

In the missing girl’s room, Sam takes his time to observe the cream walls dotted with a few personal pictures in plain black frames, the clean surfaces of two dressers, and a solid blue comforter on the queen bed against the far wall. It’s radically different from the posh style of the living room and kitchen; modern shapes and colors decorate every other space of the apartment. Photos of the missing girl – Jennifer Hampton – show a Plain Jane type standing with family all dressed a level or two above her.

Her sister, Ellie, is dressed well today, too, as she stands next to a dresser and nudges a small jewelry box into place. Her auburn hair flows in long waves down her back, her make-up is spotless, and her jeans and bright, sparkled tank top seem casual, but are definitely designer. Sam makes quick note of the drastic differences between the sisters.

“Not really,” Ellie replies to Dean’s question, pulling her shoulders in as she crosses her arms. “Jenny was a little anxious about the party, but she’s always jumpy and … awkward.”

Sam looks up from a portrait of the two girls – from at least ten years ago – in front of a lakehouse. “Why was she anxious?”

Ellie shrugs and bites into her lower lip. “I don’t know. She’s always weird when we had friends over. Fusses about everything and everyone. She isn’t really good at socializing or putting herself out there.”

Dean opens the closet door and glances inside as Sam looks over, too. There’s a line of plain colored tops on hangers, but nothing as flashy as what Ellie’s wearing now or anything that fits the rest of the apartment.

“You told the police she’d gone out to the balcony for most of the party?” Sam asks as Dean pushes clothes out of the way to search the back of the closet.

“Yeah,” she sighs. “Jenny wasn’t really talking to anyone, just stayed quiet. And then she went outside and I didn’t see her for the rest of the night.”

“The report says you found what she was wearing?” Dean asks as he leans out from the closet.

“Were the others like that, too?” she asks in return.

Sam and Dean share a look and she sighs.

“That’s so creepy,” Ellie says with a visible shiver.

“I know,” Dean mumbles though he’s smiling a little. Sam shoots him a look to shut up, and Dean frowns at him, but then looks back to Ellie with trained interest. “Did she talk to anyone during the night? Anyone go out to the balcony with her?”

She shakes her head slowly. “Not that I remember. Everyone was in the living room for the most of the night. Stefan had gone out to make a call but that was it.”

Sam glances at Dean with an inkling of thought. The report didn’t mention a Stefan in the list of those in attendance, and this the first word of someone being on the balcony aside from Jennifer. “Stefan?” Sam asks.

Ellie seems to shake herself from thought and barely looks up to Sam before watching Dean walk around the room to examine everything – or nothing, really, given how bare it is. “He works at the salon I go to. He’s new to town, only been around a few weeks. But super nice and I thought he’d like to meet some new people.” When Sam and Dean look at each other again, she stares at them. “What? What’s going on?”

Sam gives her a small, sympathetic smile. “Nothing. Can we see the balcony?”

She leads them out there and the three stand at the railing, peering down at the lush grass below. Sam takes in the area and figures the nearest street lamp wouldn’t grant much light over here. He’s certain there’s no way someone would jump down there at night and not stumble and disrupt the area, yet the lawn appears perfectly manicured.

“Her clothes were right here,” Ellie says, pointing to her right. She raises her eyebrows as she turns to Dean. “They were folded perfectly and stacked up.”

Dean’s gives Sam a look, and Sam lightly shrugs, trying to work out why someone would neatly fold Jenny’s clothes then take her away into the night. Hell, why it would happen all those other times, according to the other police reports.

“And you didn’t see anything else out here?” Sam asks.

Shaking her head, she shifts against the wood rail. “Nothing.”

Sam leans over the railing when a cat comes into view. It slinks out from under the balcony and looks up at them. Sitting back on its hind legs, it straightens its back and meows.

“God, that damned cat,” Ellie sighs. When Sam looks over, she goes on. “It’s been hanging around here the last few days, howling its head off at all hours. I called the management office, but no one’s claimed it and they say they have better things to worry about.” She rolls her eyes and flips her hair over her shoulder. “How the heck can a girl sleep with this thing going off all night?”

Furrowing his brown, Sam looks at the cat, which is staring right back at him. He tilts his head and the cat does, too. He keeps staring at it and Dean stands next to him to watch the cat as well.

_Meow._

“Stupid thing,” Ellie mutters.

Dean hums for a second and shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s kinda cute.”

 _Meoooooow_ , it stretches out with its mouth opening wide.

Sam feels something tickle down his spine as the cat continues staring at him, eyes refusing to move even as Dean shifts around him to continue talking to the sister. When Sam shuffles to the side, the cat’s dark eyes still follow him.

He’s not sure how much time passes, but a hand landing on his shoulder shakes him from the moment.

“You okay?” Dean asks.

“Yeah,” he replies slowly as he watches Ellie step back inside, leaving the balcony door open for them. He lowers his voice so she won’t hear. “She say anything else?”

Dean purses his lips. “Nothing more than a little feline hatred. What do you think?”

“We should stop by the salon.”

His brother eyes him. “You looking for some highlights?”

Sam sighs. “To talk to Stefan.”

Dean nods and smirks. “Of course. And if you’re good, maybe you can get a li’l trim.”

Sam rolls his eyes as he follows Dean back into the apartment.

The salon is all bright lights and metal furniture that reflect the rows of fluorescents above. Dean winces at the sterile setting and assesses the young man on a stool behind the front counter. The guy’s shapely brows and slick faux hawk makes Dean assume he gets more than just a paycheck from this place.

Another long look around the salon and there are a dozen stylists trimming precise cuts and a handful of perfect women are seated at desks giving manicures to more richly dressed customers.

“Can I help you?” the guy behind the counter asks with a friendly voice. He gives Dean a once over that makes him bristle because it feels too much like he’s being critiqued.

“We’re here to see Stefan,” Dean says.

“Oh!” The guy grins, sits up straight, and seems excited when he says, “You’re here for a brow wax and facial?”

Dean glances at Sam and they share an odd look. “What? No, we-”

“Yes, perfect. Stefan is running just ten minutes behind, but he can do both of you.”

Rubbing at his brow, Dean feels uncomfortable under the guy’s intense stare and is all too grateful when Sam steps up, nudging Dean out of the way. Sam flips his fake badge and uses his stern Fed voice to ask for the guy they need to talk to.

When Stefan Rogers approaches them, he’s tugging black latex gloves off his hands and reaches out to shake each of their hands. “Gentlemen,” he says. He bows his head in greeting and the angle of his dark pompadour is perfectly sculpted and stays in place no matter how he moves his head as he sizes them up. “What can I do for the good ol’ U.S. of A.?”

Dean can’t stop watching how Stefan keeps eying them both, as if he’s assessing the cut of their suits, the length of their hair, even the shine of their shoes.

Luckily, Sam powers on. “We’re here about Jennifer Hampton? You were one of the last to see her?”

“I’m sorry, who?” Stefan asks. He seems honestly unaware of the missing woman, but when Dean flashes a picture of her that Ellie had provided them with, Stefan nods with a small, growing smile. “Ahh, yes, her. Very lovely woman. The real ideal beauty.”

Dean turns the picture back so he can regard Jennifer. She’s without make-up, her hair’s up in a messy ponytail, and she’s wearing a plain black, ill-fitting t-shirt. She’s certainly not hard to look at, but his mind doesn’t go right to _ideal_.

Putting the picture back in his inside jacket pocket, Dean straightens. “Her sister says you’d gone out to the balcony while she was out there. I’d imagine you two talked?”

Stefan looks between Sam and Dean then shakes his head with an easy smile. “I’m sorry, but did something happen to her?”

“She’s missing,” Sam says plainly.

“And you seem to be the last to have seen her,” Dean adds.

“Well,” Stefan replies, putting his hand into the air, “We talked for a bit, yes. She really is a darling woman with such potential. Once we were done, I stepped back inside and finished my drink before leaving. I’m sure Ellie can attest to that.”

Even as the explanation is so simple, something feels off, and Dean turns a critical eye on the man, flipping his words over again. “What did you talk about?”

Stefan laughs brightly and aims a sharp smile at Dean. “I work in a salon, she wanted to be prettier. I shared a few of my secrets and left her with a game plan.”

“Was she still,” Dean says slowly, waving a hand in front of his chest, “You know, _dressed_ when you shared beauty tips?”

Sam shoots him a look and Dean shrugs it off. It’s a pretty freaking valid question given the evidence.

Stefan laughs and checks his watch. “Indeed she was. Look, agents, I’d love to help more but I do have a peel to finish in the back.” He gives them another long look and smirks as he tips his head and motions at their faces. “But do come back. There’s plenty I can help you both with.”

***

Back at the motel, Dean leaves Sam at his laptop to hit the bathroom. While there was nothing particularly off about Stefan Rogers, neither of them have a good feel for him, and Sam digs through the internet for any word on the guy while Dean takes a few extra moments in the bathroom to stare in the mirror and think. Too much, probably.

He knows he’s a good looking guy, gets enough women coming his way. Why the hell would any of those damned pampered stylists insist he needs work?

He thumbs low across his forehead, satisfied that there’re no stray hairs there, and follows the line of his eyebrow to pull skin up towards his hairline. Okay, there’re a few lines that’ve popped up in the last few years, but crap, who doesn’t get a little weary being a hunter, anyway?

“That freaking guy,” he grumbles at his reflection.

“I know,” Sam says from the table across the room. “He’s like a shadow. He has no history.”

Dean keeps evaluating his face as Sam rambles on about every nook and cranny he’s searching on the net but finds empty.

His nose is maybe a little too sharp, his lips a little too red and dry, and his eyes are like something out of a cartoon book, too bright and green. _Shoot_ , he could use a shave more often, and if he ever got enough sleep, these bags under his eyes would disappear.

“Dean!” Sam calls out. When Dean looks to his left, Sam’s leaning back in his chair and watching him like he’s grown another head. “What’re you doing?”

“Nothing,” he mumbles and marches right up to the table to join Sam. “So, what’s the deal with Mr. Skeezy?” Sam shoots him an odd glance and Dean flinches at it. “What? You don’t think it was all weird how he kept _critiquing_ us, insisting on facials and skin peels and manis and pedis.”

“Manis and pedis?”

“Whatever,” Dean grunts, trying to sneak a peek at his fingernails. “What’d you find?”

Sam pushes the laptop away and leans back in his seat. “Absolutely nothing. That’s what I’ve been saying while you were,” and he waves his hand at Dean’s face, “ _critiquing_ your shortcomings.”

Dean starts to argue, “I don’t have any - whatever. He’s gotta come from somewhere to work in that high class of a salon.”

With his thoughtful face on, Sam pulls the laptop back in and types out a few commands until he hijacks the neighborhood commerce board and gets into the salon’s employment database to review Stefan Rogers’ application. “Stefan Rogers lives just four blocks from Jennifer and Ellie Hampton.”

Sifting through the paperwork and books on the table, Dean yanks a local map out from the pile and spreads it out. It’s already marked with the addresses of the other missing girls, and Dean adds an X for Stefan’s then draws a few lines to connect the dots. “Huh.”

“What?” Sam asks, leaning over Dean’s shoulder to see.

Dean taps each dot and traces the lines with his finger. All three missing girls are in a five-mile radius of the newest dot marking Stefan’s apartment. “Looks like Mr. Rogers really is in the neighborhood.”

***

They search Stefan Rogers’ third-floor apartment to find nothing out of place in the sleek, modern space, all sharp-angled furniture and equally sharp looking decor. Most of the walls are covered with mirrored glass so that every time they move, they can see themselves, and Dean is actually a bit freaked out by the constant appearance of Sam in the mirrors searching a bureau behind him.

On a five-tiered glass shelving case, sleek statues and porcelain dishes are tipped up by display stands. One features smooth lines to form a woman’s silhouette, another is covered in etchings of a foreign language Dean can’t even identify, and the dish at the very top is covered with earthy brown paint. In the center of it, a feminine body has the head of a lion.

“Okay, weird,” Dean says tightly. Sam looks over with a crooked shrug, and yeah, they’ve seen stranger shit on the job, but Dean still shakes his head because these pieces are far out of place with the rest of the apartment.

More searching, mostly digging through the long bureau that covers one wall, yields them nothing. Dean stands up from his crouch and stares at himself in a sunburst of glass above the cabinet. He tips his head to catch different shades of light through the nearby windows. “Why’s a guy need so many goddamn mirrors?”

“Are you surprised?” Sam asks with his head tucked into a deep shelf. “He works at a salon, constantly making people look better than they can by themselves.”

Dean turns to Sam and winces when he catches himself in another mirror. He steps to the side so he doesn’t have to see the saddlebags under his eyes or the rough, stubbled shape of his jaw. After a second’s thought, he steps back to regard himself and tilts his head as he runs a few knuckles over the edge of his cheek. “How much you think a guy like that makes being everyone’s fairy godmother?”

Sam glances around them and shrugs. “Must be a lot, by the looks of this place.”

Picking up a few magazines off a side table – _GQ, Men’s Vogue, Esquire_ – Dean sighs. “Can’t believe all the crap people put themselves through just to look like this,” he says, flapping the magazines in his hand. Sam hums and Dean flips through the thick books before looking at his brother. “What?”

“Nothing, just … it’s funny that you’re bothering to be insulted or something.”

Dean furrows his brow and snorts. “ _What?_ ”

Sam shifts from his spot to face him. He releases an amused sigh and gestures at him. “Look at yourself, Dean. You’re always fussing with your collars and checking out women. And you have to have your hair just right before we anywhere.”

“You think I’m just like these guys?” he asks, suddenly insulted, and slapping the magazines back to the table.

“Not exactly, but it’s not like you don’t have a lot in common.”

“And what’s that, Sam?”

“It’s all the same vanity,” Sam explains simply. He turns back to the drawer he’s searching and shrugs. “All the same end point. To look good and pick up girls.”

“Alright, whatever,” he mumbles as he drags his sight across the apartment. It’s not entirely wrong – doing what he can in the name of getting laid. But he’s not like _this_ guy, with his facials and manicures and pricey wardrobe. Christ, he hasn’t bought a new _anything_ in years, using what money they do have to zigzag across the country.

Sam chuckles and shakes his head, and Dean decides to ignore him, not wanting to get any further into this train of thought. He heads into the bedroom to scope it out, but once he opens the door, he stalls and blinks.

“Uh, Sam,” Dean says oddly.

Sam comes up behind and looks down at him. “Yeah?”

Dean flips his hand out at nearly a dozen cats in the room, some sleeping on the king-sized bed, two in the windowsill, and the others roaming the wood floor. “Either he’s a breeder or he’s harboring a secret life as the neighborhood’s old cat lady.”

Sam’s eyes narrow before he makes a strange noise and his mouth twists.

***

Dean tosses his cell onto the motel bed before dropping into the chair across from Sam at the table. “Well, Bobby’s got nothing.” Sam hums but doesn’t look up from his screen and Dean sighs. “I’m guessing you’ve got nothing?”

“Pretty much,” Sam returns with his own sigh.

“That’s _great_.” Dean kicks his feet up to the table, shaking the whole thing when his ankles cross, and Sam shoots him an angry look. “What?”

Sam elbows Dean’s feet off the surface and purses his lips.

He sighs again and rests his arms on the table, flicking his hands out. “You really got nothing?”

“What do you want me to look for? Cats traded for missing girls?”

Dean stands again and leans at the counter in the kitchenette, grabbing a beer from the cooler next to him. He takes a moment for thought with the bottle raised to his mouth. “Sounds like a fairy tale, now that you say it like that. And Stefan’s our wicked stepmother.”

Sam clicks through a few sites, shaking his head as he goes. “Nothing hits when it comes to a guy hoarding cats and girls disappearing.”

“Well, there’s always a first time for somethin’,” Dean muses and takes a sip.

Sam leans closer to the screen and seems pretty darn lost with his hands spreading around the keyboard but never hitting a single letter. Then his brow furrows. “Huh.”

Dean hums out as he takes another drink.

“What was it Stefan said about Jenny?”

Dean snorts lightly at the memory of their time in the salon. He doesn’t want to remember much of it, but a few things have stuck. “That she had _potential_.”

Sam shakes his head and his fingers flutter above the keys, still not touching the laptop. “No, something about beauty, right?”

Now there’s some interest brewing, a possibility, and Dean puts his bottle down to the table just next to Sam’s elbow. He leans in over his brother’s shoulder to view the screen and mumbles, “Ideal beauty.”

“There,” Sam says, pointing at a line across a crude display of html.

Complete with an awkwardly blue background and red, clunky text, the Web site boasts cat myths, and the line Sam’s pointing at reads _Egyptian women believed that the ideal beauty was that of a cat._

Dean reads through the words a handful of times, trying to wrap his brain around the statement, but all he can come up with is: “He’s _making cats_?”

Sam turns toward Dean and his face is scrunched up, a cross between surprise and grossed out. “What?”

Shrugging, Dean backs away, instantly on the defense. “Well, I don’t know. You got a better idea, I’m all ears.”

Sam turns back to the screen and reads the passages over and over. Dean has to drain the rest of his beer to truly consider what seems to be the only answer.

“He couldn’t …,” Sam drifts off. “But maybe they’re – ” He turns to Dean with quite the same strange face, but confusion is now taking over. “You really think he’s turning girls into cats?”

“Would explain why they’re going naked,” Dean replies with a shrug. He suddenly snaps at Sam. “That cat at the girls’ apartment. Maybe that’s really Jenny? Like she comes back to visit her sister? And then he’s got a whole slew of other missing girls in his bedroom.”

“You think?”

“Only one way to know.”

***

A couple of hours are burned in a stakeout with the Impala parked a few doors down and across the street from Stefan Rogers’ apartment building. There’s no sign of him until after six when he returns home, presumably from work. When he reappears around ten, he hops into a sleek silver sedan and pulls away.

They follow him to a local bar with neon across the brick and people bustling in and out. To remain unseen, they wait a few minutes to follow him inside, but it turns out to be a bad idea since they never catch sight of him again. Still, Dean orders them each a beer and they stay off to the side at a bar-height table to keep a lookout.

Sam leaves for the bathroom and Dean’s still combing the room as he sips from his pint glass when he’s startled by a woman seated at the bar. She’s got long dark, luscious curls flowing over her shoulders, a sinfully fitted, low-cut dress that’s creamy like her skin and stops high on her thighs, and she’s holding a cherry to her mouth as she leers at him.

Dean chances a quick look over his shoulder, even as he’s sure she’s got him on her mind, and when he looks back to her, she winks and sucks the cherry into her mouth.

Well. If ever there was a more perfect invitation …

He leaves a twenty on the table and dials up Sam’s cell. As soon as his brother answers, he rattles off, “I’m following a lead. You stay here and keep watch for our hairdresser.”

“What’ve you got?”

“A good feeling,” he replies with a smirk. He snaps his cell shut as he crosses the bar to meet the woman. In the darkness of the bar, soft shadows fall over her face, but he can still see her upturned, glossy lips and eyes that flicker up to him with intent.

He motions at her short glass, cubed ice coated in something creamy.

“You look like you could use a refill,” he says lowly, his best smirk in place.

She licks her lips seductively and swivels on her stool to fully face him. Leaning in close, she rests her hand at his elbow and purrs in his ear. “I sure wouldn’t mind, if it’s comin’ from you.”

Dean bites at his lower lip as he pulls back enough to see her eyes, the hazel flickers under a light angled near the bar and he’s mesmerized by the sparkle across her eyes. For a second, he swears he recognizes her, but there’s no way he’ll go that route – _don’t I know you?_ – even if he might.

The way she shifts on the stool draws his eyes to her long neck, all smooth, soft skin. A gold chain reaches far down her chest, begging his eyes to follow the line down to her cleavage where a triangle-shaped charm sits at the swell of her breasts, which he tries hard to not stare at. Especially when she slips part of the chain across her mouth, dragging his sight to her lush lips.

She clears her throat, letting the charm drop into place, and his eyes flick up. Her pink tongue comes out again, tucking at the corner of her lips for a second. “Kahlua and cream. On the rocks.”

He narrows his eyes, but when she begins to smirk, he grins right back at her and chuckles. “What d’ya say we get one for the road?”

She doesn’t say yes so much with her voice, but more with the way she rises to her feet and her hips sway as she leads him to the door, pushing it open and strutting across the paved parking lot until he directs her to his car.

He can’t drive fast enough, legs getting jittery with excitement. He keeps himself calm, even when she cups his knee, rubs down his thigh, and squeezes at the muscle. “You got somewhere else you oughta be?” he asks then chuckles.

Her only reply is a wink and a long swipe of her pink tongue over red lips, and he kicks the gas pedal down to run a yellow light.

Dean gets the door to the hotel room open just as she presses up against him, all fluid movements and gentle hands. He’s got nothing but a broad smile as she dips in to nip along his neck.

“You’re so very nice to look at, you know,” she murmurs at his ear before lightly tugging his lobe between her teeth.

With a throaty chuckle, he slips into the room, pulling her with as he makes sure there’s hardly any space between them. “I’m quite aware.”

She kisses up his jaw then moves away just a few inches so she can drag her finger down his nose and over his lips. “So very beautiful.”

Dean cocks his head and shoots her a sly look. “As are you, sweetheart.”

With her hand under his chin, she tips his head back and licks a long swipe up his throat, forcing his eyes to roll back and all the air in his lungs to leave him.

It’s been a few hours, Sam figures. Long enough to grant Dean time with whoever he’s picked up tonight. Sam’s ready to drop into bed and prepare for an early morning of research and more stakeouts, and he’d really appreciate it if his brother were somewhere else or at least done for the night.

But Jesus, if Dean could find someone in that bar, there’s no way he’ll be ready to hit the sack if he’s back at the hotel, even he’s alone. He’ll likely be grinning and humming his way through another beer, knocking his feet up on the table.

So, when Sam pushes the door open and finds the place dark and quiet, he’s surprised. And when he stumbles over Dean’s boots, he curses him out, shouting in the silent room with only an echo as his answer.

That is until he hears a light scratching noise and a low growl.

Sam fumbles his way to the bedside table, turns the lamp on, and that’s when he sees it. An orange tabby cat sits on Dean’s bed, hind legs resting flat on the mattress as it lifts up to its front legs.

“Dean!” Sam calls out, not even caring how frantic he sounds at the moment. There is a _cat_ in the hotel room and their case is riddled with them and … _no way_ , this thing is staring right back at him, tipping its head like it’s trying to read his mind.

_Reowwww._

“Dean?” he asks, though he’s more afraid of this answer than most anything in life.

The cat brings its paw up to scrub at its face, yawn, and then seemingly _scowl_ before dropping back down to the mattress.

“Oh crap.”

***

“ _You did **what**?!_ ”

Sam winces at the boom of Bobby’s voice over the line. He lifts his eyes to the ceiling and fights the right words. “ _I_ didn’t do it,” he replies lamely.

“Your brother’s been turned into a _goddamn cat_ , and you’re sayin’ you didn’t have a single thing to do with that?”

“I wasn’t even here,” Sam argues back. He takes a few quick steps to start pacing, but stops when he reaches Dean’s bed and … Dean, he supposes. The cat is perched at the corner of the bed and staring up at him. The entirety of its face seems to be those wide, green eyes watching Sam. “I mean, maybe it’s not really him.”

“If it ain’t him, then where’s he at?” Bobby asks, quieter this time but still just as sharp and cynical.

Sam looks at the bedside table, at Dean’s cell. Once he’d recovered from the shock of a cat left alone in their room, one that wouldn’t stop following Sam with its eyes or meow and growl at him, he called Dean only to find the cell on the floor between their beds and ringing without anyone to answer. Even the cat looked over at the phone then gave Sam a strange, tilted look.

“And if that ain’t your brother, why’re you botherin’ me?”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Sam cringes and asks himself that same thing. “So, you’ve never heard of this sort of thing before?” he chances.

“Right, ‘cause Tom & Jerry show up in lore all the time?”

Yeah, he’d guess not.

Bobby sighs, rough and long. “Alright, I’ll go on this wild goose chase and see what I can find.”

“Okay, yeah,” Sam sighs in return.

“And you keep an eye on your brother,” Bobby demands, and Sam figures if they were in person, there’d be a few fingers pointed in his direction. “Make sure he doesn’t turn into a tiger or something.”

“Alright, thanks, Bobby.”

Bobby grunts in return and ends their call.

Sam looks at the cat … at _Dean_ , and man, this is going to take some getting used to. With as strong of a smile he can muster, he nods at Dean. Trying to comfort his brother, as much as himself, Sam says, “Bobby’s got a few leads, and we’ll get you out of this real soon.”

Dean cocks his head then shakes it, turning in a circle and plopping down on the bed.

Yeah, they’re totally screwed.

In the morning, Sam’s up and resolutely ignoring the fluff of orange fur curled up near the pillow on Dean’s bed. He hits the library, finding more cutesy fictional cat memoirs than anything historical or textual. A stop at a used bookshop brings more grief than help, as the lady in the long floral skirt grins at him, pats and gropes his forearm repeatedly, and tells him it’s adorable he’s so interested in _the feline nature_.

He gives her a tight smile and nods, thankful she can find a book or two he buys on the cheap. Though the thin paperbacks do little to ease his worry.

At the motel, he gets to research, because it’s what he does. When he’s bored, stressed, worried. Mostly lost is what he’s feeling right now.

Dean is … not well.

Sam shifts to see over his shoulder and find Dean resting on his belly, chin down on his paws, with his eyes boring right into Sam’s forehead by the looks of it. Dean is a cat and Sam has no clue how it happened or what possibilities there are to reverse it.

 _Not well_ is a major understatement right now.

He takes a sip from a glass of whiskey he’d poured himself an hour ago, but has barely touched. It’s Dean’s bottle, but there’s no way in hell Dean’s having any right now. And it’s not like Sam doesn’t need it. He needs everything to get him through this mess.

There’s a soft breath behind him and Dean’s up to stretch with his mouth wide open. His pink, spongy tongue hollows out before he completes the yawn with a snap of his jaws. Even at two feet long, Sam can see much of his brother right here. It’s disturbing, really.

Especially when Dean jumps across the open space between the bed and the table, landing surprisingly gracefully on the empty chair beside Sam. Dean hops up to the table and slowly strolls across the top, long, purposeful steps around the handful of lore books they carry with them on their travels. He even takes care to step on the flat parts of Sam’s laptop, avoiding keys, and sits at Sam’s elbow while staring at him.

_Reeeeow._

It’s more of a groan if anything, Sam thinks, and he lifts an eyebrow at his brother. “What?” Dean keeps staring at him without another movement or sound. “What do you want?” Sam asks with a small whine. “It’s not like I can read minds, you know?”

Dean tips his head and there’s a strange shift on his face that Sam can almost read like Dean wants roll his eyes and hum, _really?_

Sam scratches at the side of his head. Okay, he could once kind of do something sort of related to that. But this is different. Dean is an _animal_ , with four paws, whiskers, and the inability to speak English. This does not relate to anything Sam experienced these last two years. Though the headaches are quite familiar.

“Alright, whatever,” Sam concedes. “What’m I supposed to do with you now, anyway? I doubt a Ouija board can help us, and Bobby’s staying quiet. Aside from calling us morons every hour. On the hour.” As Dean takes a few steps over the _Your Magical Cat: Feline Magic, Lore, and Worship_ paperback, Sam leans away from his reading and releases a small moan. “What’re you doing?”

Dean drags a paw over a few paragraphs then looks up at Sam.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I know, it sucks. But it’s not like I have much to work with.” He keeps watching Dean, even as he continues to walk over the small paperback and claws at one corner of the left page.

It’s quiet for longer than is comfortable, especially between them, and Sam realizes he’s been waiting for Dean to reply.

Yeah. Like that’ll happen.

“It’s not like Lewis Carroll has instructions on how to Alice you into a big kid,” Sam complains. He sighs and leans forward with his elbows on the table, hanging his head down to read words between Dean’s paws.

Dean spins his upper body to look at Sam – well, more like glare – and Sam shoots him a pretty ugly look. Spinning back around, Dean flips his tail at Sam’s face.

Sam dry spits, hairs flickering away from his lips and mouth and floating in the air before swaying down to the table. It might be a bundle of fur, but Dean’s definitely in there. Before Sam can reconnect with _The Mystique of Your Animal_ , he hears a light wet sound and looks up to find Dean just a few feet over with his head in Sam’s glass. Dean’s tongue is flicking out quickly, lapping up the whiskey faster than should be possible.

“No! What’re you-” Sam shouts, pulling the glass away even as Dean growls, deep and feral in the back of his throat. “God, two sips and you’re gonna fall right off the table.”

Dean hunches down on all fours with his spine arching up and his hair spreading out like he’s been electrocuted.

Sam just makes a face and tries not to laugh. “I don’t care if you’re as pissed off as I am right now. You’re not drinking.” He moves to the kitchenette and dumps the glass out so neither of them is further tempted. With the realization that Dean likely hasn’t had anything in his stomach for near a day, he refills it with water and makes a mental note to buy some supplies … milk instantly pops into his head. It amuses him, probably more than it should, and he starts chuckling as he moves back to the table.

Just then, Dean paws at the bottle of whiskey, shoving it down to its side. It lands at the edge of the table and spills out amber liquid in what is likely Dean’s dream waterfall, utopia, and nirvana all in one, because Dean hops right down to the growing puddle and buries his head in it.

In two quick steps, Sam sweeps Dean off the floor with a tight hand around Dean’s midsection and chucks him onto the bed before he can think better of it. As Dean sails to the mattress, Sam winces, but then he finds a mixture of shock and awe as Dean flips his body around and lands perfectly on all four paws.

“Huh,” Sam says with his eyebrows going high.

At least this Dean’s interesting to watch.

Dean wakes from a nap, all groggy and fuzzy-brained. It’s a familiar feeling after long nights, and as he rolls to his back and stretches, he remembers the whiskey waterfall. He smiles and snaps his jaws open and shut as he licks the whole of his mouth. At least he can still drink. He’ll ignore the fact that it only took a shot or two to knock him out.

The motel room door opens and shuts, shocking Dean to fully rise to all fours and see Sam pass outside the window. Dean hops over to Sam’s bed, then up to the windowsill to watch Sam get in the Impala and pull out once it’s all revved up.

Man, he misses his baby.

Dean sits back on his hind legs and watches her drive away. The parking lot is still idle when he feels sunrays warm up his coat. He lightly shakes out his legs before dropping to his side and taking up the whole length of the windowsill to rest.

Waking up from a deep, dark sleep to find himself with four paws and a mess of fur has likely been one of the most terrifying experiences of his life. Last he remembered was bringing a hot chick back to his room and being about five seconds from getting them both down to their birthday suits and … that’s about it. It’s annoying that he can’t remember anything past that, because he knows for a fact that he had her hook-line-and-sinker, considering how quickly she’d agreed to join him.

And now he’s incapable of moving without using four legs and he can’t do more than growl or meow for attention.

But so far, this cat life ain’t too much to complain about. Sure, he’s starving for some good food and he’s dying to use the toilet instead of scratching a long path at the front door so Sam will take him out to avoid pissing in the corner of the carpet, but it’s not all horrible.

He feels like he’s on vacation right now. He’s filled the last twenty-four hours with bonafide cat naps and long bouts of chasing dust particles in the air. On a whim and total curiosity, he’d groomed himself and found that it was akin to a soft sponge bath. In this new body, he could curl into himself and swipe this new long tongue down his belly and over his normally aching feet. The hair didn’t taste so great but it was a small price to pay for bathing himself with a built-in massage.

Getting drunk on a quick dip into the Jack Daniel’s pool wasn’t so bad – at least he didn’t have to commit to hours of downing the stuff. And now he’s camped out on the windowsill with the sun warming him up and he’s completely off the hook for working the case.

The break’s nice. To be utterly incapable of digging into books or trampling his way through town to get answers or finding that big _a-ha_ moment, and leaving it all to Sam …

Okay, it kind of stinks. He can’t talk, can’t eat or drink the things he normally craves, and he can’t take a piss in any dignified manner. And as much as he hates to admit it, he’s bored out of his mind and misses human interaction. With law enforcement, professors, people close to the victims who can give them a hidden clue. And alright, yeah, he misses being able to talk to his brother with more than animalistic grunts and non-syllables.

It down right sucks.

Just to wallow in some more of his pitiful mood, he turns away from the window and lets the sun beat down on his back. He rests his head down on his front paws and stares across the room as he tries to piece together his last human night and find a clue – any clue – that he can point his brother towards. He’s got to find a good use for these claws anyway.

Marching around the motel room takes longer than it normally would, but still not all that long; it’s not a big space and the beds take up half of it. The bathroom seems typical for them, though when Dean hops up onto the toilet and rests his front paws on the sink, he’s a bit more grossed out by the toothpaste smudges and mess of facial hair Sam must’ve left behind in the sink when he got ready that morning. Again, it’s nothing new, but seeing it this big, this close up, it’s like an overgrown petri dish and he has to turn away.

Dean settles on the toilet seat and breathes deep, but something trickles up his throat. No matter how hard he tries to control the swirling of his stomach, nothing works, and he turns his head and dry heaves. Hacking as a cat isn’t any easier than it is as a human. In fact it seems far more retched than anything he’s experienced, even from the worst of bad food or far too much of alcohol.

He turns his head to the side and hacks two more times. Once shoves something up his throat and the second forces it into his mouth and he spits it out on the floor. Ugh, hairball. _Big_ price to pay for giving yourself a massage.

Back up to the sink, Dean reaches out for the cold nozzle, pushes the knob over to start the faucet, and leans in to lick through the stream. Even when the taste of the hairball is gone, he keeps going, realizing how incredibly thirsty he is. It’s been at least a day since he last had a real meal – more than licking at crumbs left behind from the last meal they shared as humans – and it’s not like he can get himself anything with the lack of a voice or hands.

“ _Dean!_ ”

He snaps his head up to find Sam marching towards him, and as he leans back to watch Sam charge into the room, he tries to ask _what?_ but it comes out more like a tiny little mewl.

Sam turns the faucet off with a hard sigh, then glances down to the ground and groans. “Oh, you gotta be kidding me.”

It’s not like Dean can clean it up himself, or as thought he even wants hairballs. But there’s no way he can say so, and instead he releases a low _Meow?_

Sam glares at him, and Dean would love to know what Sam thinks of being turned into a house pet and wishes like hell he could work his claws to give Sam the middle one right now.

Being a cat _sucks_.

“Get outta here so I can clean up,” Sam complains, batting Dean’s back and nudging him off the toilet.

Dean stalks out of the room, glancing over his shoulder to see Sam grabbing toilet paper and getting down to the mess on the floor. Cleaning up hairballs could be torture enough for now, Dean figures. Then he smells something familiar and hurries to the table, hopping up to the seat he’d take if he were properly mobile, and sees the new paper bag on the tabletop.

 _Food!_ Sam’s brought food! Oh, for all that is good and mighty, Dean prays there’s something for him in there, too.

_Meoooooow._

“Yeah, yeah, okay, relax,” Sam mutters as he joins Dean at the table. Sam pulls the sack open and places a large Styrofoam container on the table, and Dean wants to drool. Except his new spongy tongue sucks up most of the saliva pooling in his mouth. It’s weird, uncomfortable for sure. But hey, at least he can keep his face clean.

Sam places a smaller container in front of Dean, and Dean glares up at him. _I want more than this_ Dean thinks, wanting so badly to bitch Sam out for it.

_Reooooow._

Sam rolls his eyes, opens the top, and sits down to his own food. Dean’s eyes grow outrageously at the pile of roasted chicken with steam rising up from the glistening meat. “Yeah, you happy now?” Sam grumbles.

Dean glances at him, surprised by that kind of attitude. Dirty looks, confused ones, too, are more Sam’s thing. He’s usually not big on vocalizing true resentment unless they’re going toe-to-toe, and Dean’s pretty sure they’re not, even if they could.

Then again, Dean’s growing pretty lonely and impatient living as a cat, he supposes Sam’s growing tired of it as well.

Dean snorts to himself, then on the next breath in, he smells the juicy meat waiting for him.

Nevermind Sam! There’s food! Moist, succulent chicken scraps all for him!

Dean props himself up to the table with a front paw on either side of the container and his jaws opening wide so he can bite into the first piece. The top cut of chicken is one he’d normally be able to pop right into his human mouth, but now he needs a little bit of wrestling to get through it. And he does, albeit with more patience than he’s accustomed to. Once he’s got the use of his canines down, he powers right through the meal with hardly a second to breathe.

“You’re welcome,” Sam mumbles.

From the corner of his eye, Dean can see Sam slowly picking through an order of fries all while watching him eat. Dean slants his head for a second and lets out a tiny _mew_ in thanks, then gets right back to business.

Sam sounds a little happier for it as he dryly says, “Better than Kitty Chow, huh?” After a short chuckle, Sam pushes a fork through his own chicken dinner alongside Dean. “This is pretty good,” he says, and they share a quick look. Sam smiles and Dean does his best to return it, but he’s not sure how it really gets across with a face full of fur and whiskers.

When Sam reaches over to pet Dean, just a little scritch over the top of his head, Dean’s sure Sam got it loud and clear.

***

The door slams shut and Dean jerks up from his nap. He arches his back up high as he stands up on … whatever the equivalent of tiptoes are for cats … and flaps his mouth open to yawn, snapping it shut and shaking his head to get all the cobwebs out of his brain. When he’s settled on his hind legs, he sees Sam toss a stack of papers to the table before he stalks to the bathroom. As he passes, he drops a quick few fingers to the top of Dean’s head and starts rambling.

“Another girl’s gone missing. Last her roommate knew, she was going to Stefan’s salon to redeem a gift certificate someone gave her for her birthday, but didn’t want to really use. No one at the salon remembers. And Stefan’s buried in a round of hot stone treatments. I can’t get near him.”

Stepping to the edge of the bed, Dean leans forward to see Sam washing his face a bit too rigorously, really. Sam’s got to be getting water all over the sink and the floor with how hard he’s shucking water up to his face.

Sam steps into the doorway of the bathroom and rests his forearms against the frame, shaking his head and biting into the corner of his mouth. “Ten girls now. Bobby’s got nothing. And you’re,” he trails off while flicking his hand out. “Still a cat.”

Dean’s well aware he is, and he’ll be the first to declare that it sucks out loud. If he could actually use words.

When Sam lands hard in a dining chair, Dean hops off the bed and up a chair and then the table. All the while, Sam’s rambling on about the case, reciting what they already know and then outright complaining about all that they don’t. Hunting alone – after spending two years at it together – makes twice the work. There’s no sidekick to distract the family so the other can search the new missing girl’s bedroom. There’s no one to split the recon with or bounce ideas off of.

“And I’m mostly just talking to myself now,” Sam says, defeated and sighing as he shakes his head and pushes the laptop away from him.

Dean’s about ready to tell him to shut up and count all the ways it’s worse for him. That he’s confined to this velvet-encased hotel room – one he was amused by when they first checked in, but now wants to gag at. He has to rely on Sam to bring him food because there’s no way he can track down his own meals. He’s got _three_ damned eyelids, the third one always sliding in and out when he blinks and clouding his sight. Hairballs are becoming far too regular an occurrence., though he’ll quietly admit he keeps forgetting about that and has been licking at his coat more than he probably should. Wouldn’t be a problem if he could work the Magic Fingers box at the bedside and waste some time in other ways. And then he woke himself up in the middle night when his body was _vibrating_ on its own, and he was a bit freaked out to realize he was purring and he _liked it_.

Okay, that one might not be so bad. But still. It feels a bit creepy that it happens without him realizing it.

“And you’re the odd man out,” Sam’s still complaining. “The only guy who’s turned, and you can’t even _talk_. How the hell’m I supposed to figure you out?”

 _Yeah, well,_ Dean grumbles to himself. _You try walking around on all fours, drinking out of bowls, and dealing with a bladder the size of a golf ball and …_

Damnit, that golf ball is pressing on him and he paws at Sam’s arm.

“What now?” Sam sighs.

Dean looks to the door and hopes Sam gets it. But Sam just shakes his head and lifts his giant shoulders. Dean shakes his head and jumps off the table, walks to the door, and scratches at it.

“God, you’re like a child,” Sam groans as he stands and meets Dean at the door.

Outside, they both walk around the side of the motel to a gravel-covered path that leads to another parking lot. Dean steps closer to the dirt-brown shingling of the building and crouches to piss. As he goes, sighing with relief, Sam huffs loudly and walks a few yards up and crouches down, too.

Dean winces, turning away, because this is the exact spot Sam’s been leading him to for bathroom breaks, and _Jesus_ , what is Sam is doing with his hands in the gravel.

“Huh,” Sam says as he stares at a charm between his fingers, long gold chain hanging from his hand. He turns the piece over and Dean can see the triangle, and his brain smacks the back of his skull with the memory of that night. He wants to cry out that his mystery woman wore that same thing. That the last thing he remembers is taking her back to the room and making out in the doorway.

“JH,” Sam says with wonder. “JH. Jenny Hampton!” And then he’s up and rushing back to the hotel room.

Dean waits another second to finish, then spins around, trampling across the uneven gravel to follow, and meets the door just as it slams shut. He smacks his paw at the door, yelling _Damnit, Sam!_ but it comes out more as a high-pitched _REOWWWW_.

The door clicks open and Sam’s frowning a little, possibly smiling a lot, when he pulls it enough to let Dean in. “Sorry.”

At least Sam sounds guilty, but Dean’s not going to let him get away with it, and he stalks to the bed, jumping up and settling right in the middle. He resolutely turns his body so he’s staring at the window and not at Sam, no matter how much Sam’s talking his way through the clue.

“So, you think Stefan is collecting trophies from his victims and he dropped this outside? What’d he take from you?”

Dean rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but then he winces when he feels his third eyelid flicking out then back into place. Jesus, he will _never_ get used to that.

Sam’s still fiddling with Jenny’s charm, mumbling something about hoarding prizes from victims and Dean grunts – though it comes out more like an aborted purr. He gets up and goes to the table, stepping clear across Sam’s research and smiling at all of Sam’s complaints. He stops right in front of Sam and paws at the charm in Sam’s hand.

“What about her?”

Dean flicks the chain and then shucks his paw against his jaw, hoping a round of kitty charades will do the trick.

“What?”

Again, Dean paws at himself, but Sam still looks confused.

“Do you know where this came from?” Sam sits up, sounding more excited. “Where’d it come from, Dean?”

Oh, Christ, he is _not_ fucking Lassie.

Losing the ability to communicate with his brother has got to be the most frustrating part of this whole episode. He can’t speak, can’t write, can’t even do stinkin’ hand signals to clue his brother into the fact that he’s now fully aware that Jenny Hampton was the girl he brought back here and that long lick at his neck was the thing that turned him.

Man, why the hell couldn’t he figure this out before? Maybe it’s because his brain is currently the size of an acorn.

Sam taps fingers at the top of Dean’s head, and Dean shimmies away from the sudden touch. “What’s going on in your walnut, Dean?”

God, how in the hell does he relay this?

After some staring, Sam’s eyes boring into him as they both think long and hard, Dean stretches out on his side and starts cleaning himself. Well, he’s really just trying to make a point as he licks long paths across his belly.

Sam huffs and groans. “God, Dean, what’re you doing?” he complains, pushing at the side of Dean’s head to make him stop. “That’s gross.”

Dean stands up and pats at the charm, looks at himself, and the charm. He licks at his paw, strokes over his neck, and then hits the chain again.

“Oh,” Sam says quietly. “ _Oh_.”

The library is quiet, as it ought to be, but it’s also busy with some college kids at the table next to Sam and other patrons shuffling through books and walking all around him. The place smells like stale paper and books crack every time someone opens one.

It’s like Heaven.

Researching in public is easing his stress. Seeing people – actual people who can talk – and hearing hushed whispers is a strange comfort given he’s been living in near silence for three days now. He hates leaving Dean alone in the room with no way to help himself to anything, but Sam left a plate of cut-up grilled chicken and a bowl of fresh water before he left. He needs to see _people_ and be reminded of what he needs to do. Make his brother a person again.

He combs through any book that came up in his search for animal transformations, feline-related spells, and Egyptian legends. Thinking through Dean’s bit of show-and-not-tell reminded Sam of the Web site they’d seen after they found all those cats in Stefan’s bedroom.

_Egyptian women believed that the ideal beauty was that of a cat._

Sam pulls the missing persons reports together, flipping through each one, and considers the fact that they’re all rather plain looking. The pictures range from driver’s license photos that show awkward smiles, simple hairstyles, and little make-up. Other casual portraits are full of women with non-particular styles who would likely disappear in a crowd. Women who likely feel like they do, in fact, vanish in most company. Especially in a town like this.

Two books appear on the table beside his elbow and the young, brunette librarian who’d first directed him to the computers gives him a small smile. “Here’re two others,” she says quietly.

He gives her a smile in return and glances at the cover of _The Cat in Ancient Egypt_ with its hieroglyphics and crude drawing of an animal that looks more like some feral beast. A hyena or serval or something

“Thanks,” he nods as he grabs the book and flips through it. He drags his fingers over text and skims the words. There are details on how cats were treated in the days of pyramids, how they were the first domesticated animals, and many were regarded as regally as the queens they sat next to. “These are great,” he says with wonder.

“You’re welcome.” She leans against the table, tweed skirt scratching at the edge of it. He glances up and can admit that he admires the soft sweater hugging her slight curves and the soft smile she’s still feeding him. Her face is round and smooth and her eyes bright when her smile slides into something a little more nervous. “This is a real interesting topic you’re going after. I’ve always been interested in Egyptian culture and how they hold items sacred.”

“Really?” he asks. He bites into his bottom lip when she tilts her hips to nearly sit at the corner of the table.

“You know that some believed in objectifying people for in the name of vanity.”

Sam chuckles, drawing a few patron’s dirty looks for the noise, so he gives a guilty wave and quiets down. He’s read enough in the last three days to have seen that in a few places, and, when thinking of his brother, vanity is a definite check on the list.

“There’s a tale of a master who collected people as artwork. He’d dress them up in the finest fabrics and jewels then put them out like art.”

He opens his mouth to speak, but closes it when he’s oddly interested. “I hadn’t read that one,” he admits slowly.

She shifts closer and tips her head as she smirks and continues. “There was one prince who would only keep good-looking servants. A few of the more loyal, he turned them into cats to project their perfect beauty.”

“You’re kidding me,” he says quietly, eyes roaming her face to read if there’s a trace of joking.

Instead of verifying, or admitting to a lie, she stands and taps at the top of the book she’d brought him. “I’m off the clock in a few minutes. I could come back and help you get through some of your research.”

He’s more than willing to accept help, given how useless Dean is at the moment, not to mention he wouldn’t mind talking to her and keep her sweet look with him a little longer.

But he’s distracted when his phone rings, a loud blare of a default tone, and everyone in view glares at him. He hits the answer key and brings the phone to his ear with a low greeting.

“I think I might’ve found you boys something to work with,” Bobby says.

“Yeah, me, too,” Sam says quickly. He tucks the phone between his ear and shoulder and pulls his books and papers together. “I can call you back on the way to the room.”

“Where you at now?” Bobby asks strangely.

“Leaving the library.”

“You left your brother _alone_? Christ, this is how you two idjits get into trouble. Splittin’ up and ignorin’ one another.”

“I’m not ignoring him,” Sam defends. “What’m I supposed to do? Sit around and watch him lick himself?”

He looks up to the librarian’s muted groan and finds her face twisting with disgust.

“What? No, I just mean – ” he defends.

She’s already frowning and waving him off. “No, it’s fine. I have … work … to do.”

He sighs pathetically when she’s out of sight.

“Sam? You still there?” Bobby asks through the phone.

“Yeah, I just – I’ll call you in a few,” he whispers and ends the call.

***

Sam marches through the hotel parking lot with purpose. He’s got a lead and a shit-ton of books. There’s a thread of confidence spinning through him and he’s ready to tell Bobby and Dean all he found. He hip-checks the door open and rushes into the room to drop his books to the table

“I think I found something,” he grins, and then he stops. The sight of Dean, a small ball of orange fluff lounging on top of the made bed is still alarming, even when he knows this is exactly what he’s trying to get them out of.

Dean tips his head and Sam watches before he huffs at himself for expecting some sort of answer.

“Right. You’re still Hello Kitty.”

Dean growls and stands on all fours, back arching in what could be menacing to a mouse, but doesn’t mean a whole lot right now.

“Don’t get your tail all in a knot,” Sam sighs as he sits down. He calls Bobby back and puts it on speaker, waving for Dean to join him at the table.

When they’re both in place and Bobby’s answered, Sam starts talking. “So, there’re stories of Egyptian royalty turning people into cats because they’re too obsessed with vanity, creating that _ideal beauty_ out of people who aren’t normally considered anything like it. Some keep the cats around like their trophies, trying to outdo each other with how many they collect. The girls who’ve gone missing are all quiet, meek types who don’t really compare to others around here. I’m guessing Stefan’s got himself some kind of spell over them and is keeping them out of his own pride. A handful of them were regular customers at the salon and let’s not forget the fact that he works _at a salon_. He’s at the epicenter of vanity and beautification.”

“About time you found yourself a theory,” Bobby mumbles before clearing his throat. “That fits fine and good with my stuff. Around 2000 B.C., Egyptians started worshiping their first domesticated cat, the Egyptian Mau. It was their new god and soon enough, the cult of _Bastet_ formed. In god-form, Bastet was seen as a woman with the head of a cat, and was considered the _absolute beauty_.”

Dean meows then growls and flicks his paw over his ear. Sam narrows his eyes at that movement and thinks of Dean scrubbing a hand over his head when he’s frustrated and something clicks.

“There’s a plate at Stefan’s apartment.” Dean’s head picks up and Sam smiles at him, realizing they’re finally on the same page. For the first time in three days, and it feels damn good. “It had a woman’s body with a feline head.”

“Well, then there’s your boy,” Bobby says.

“Yeah, but what now?” Sam asks as he looks at Dean. Dean blinks at him and they watch one another for a while. Bobby’s quiet aside from turning pages, and Sam’s stomach burns at the thought of Bobby not having an answer for them.

“Well, there ain’t much in the books, but a few Wiccan sites give a couple-a possibilities.”

Sam waits for Bobby to continue while he and Dean both stare at the phone in the following silence. “Bobby?”

“Yeah, you might not like this.” He huffs a laugh and Sam frowns at the idea of Bobby’s wry smile.

Dean instantly turns to Sam and stares, eyes all wide and green, looking worried and pathetic, really. Sam does his best to ignore him. “What is it?”

“A honeydew and a pint of dolphin’s milk.”

Dean's _Meow_ comes out more like a question and Bobby chuckles.

“Drink and chant and cross your fingers.”

“That sounds disgusting,” Sam says with a wince.

“ _Dean_ would drink, not you, you knumbskull.”

 _Oh_. Sam considers that for a moment. “Where would one get dolphin’s milk?”

Dean growls at him, and Sam does his best to look guilty.

“What else you got?” Sam asks, resolutely keeping his eyes to the phone and away from Dean.

“Another calls for two raw eggs, a citrus fruit, something from the hexer and the hexee – ”

“Something, like … you wanna be more specific there, Bobby?”

“Like remains.”

Sam gapes at the phone. “We’re trying to keep Dean _alive_.”

“I’m not talkin’ literally,” Bobby grumbles. “Just something with DNA.”

“Oh, yeah, right,” Sam says pathetically.

“Get yourself all that stuff, and then butterfly wings and read an incantation a few times.”

Sam furrows his brow and one glance at Dean seems to be telling him the same thing. _Butterfly wings_? Is he supposed to go out to the parking lot and chase them around until he gets his giant hands on one? He supposes he could visit the local museum, check out their entomology department, but he’s not sure this is their best option either.

“Anything else?” Sam asks.

“Not so far, but you may wanna head down to the zoo just in case.”

It’s nearly eight o’clock, the sun going down on their day. On his own, there’s likely a better chance of scamming someone out of the items in the morning than breaking in without someone to watch his back tonight. Sam sighs and wants to dump his head onto the table, but there’s hardly any room with all his research and Dean sitting right in front of him. “Yeah, alright. Thanks, Bobby.”

“So, how’s our boy holdin’ up?”

Sam and Dean’s eyes lock again and Sam frowns. He immediately regrets it, though, given how Dean crouches down and rests his head on his front paws. “He’s holding,” Sam lies, not wanting to throw Bobby into a fit of swearing and scolding again.

“How ‘bout you?”

A moment passes for Sam to take in the whole room, one he’s been sharing with Dean for a week now, but it’s nothing like any other job they’ve had before, being on his own to work and unable to talk things through together. “I’m fine,” he lies again.

“You sure sound fine,” Bobby says grimly. “We’ll both keep looking and find something in the morning. You oughta rest.”

“Thanks, Bobby.” As he ends the call, he considers that while it sucks to be doing this on his own, he’s got Bobby keeping things moving with his hard work. He’s lonely, but not quite alone.

At that thought, he drops his head to watch Dean, who shifts to look up from one eye. He rubs fingers over Dean’s ears and releases a long breath. “What’re we gonna do with you?” he asks quietly, more to himself than Dean.

Dean rises to all fours and stares at him, that sad wide-eyed look, and Sam can’t bear to look at it any longer. He flips all the books on the table closed and heads right to his bed, falling back to the mattress. He rubs his hands over his face, thumb and forefinger digging into his eyes.

“God, I’m so tired of staring at books,” he groans. The want to bitch and moan and whine is so strong right now, after going so long without having someone who knows him able to answer. “I haven’t read this much since school,” Sam mumbles, once he’s added up the number of hours he’s logged at the library, on the internet, and reading books. He stays in the center of the bed, knees bent at the edge of the mattress and feet firm on the ground, unable to move – or just unwilling to, maybe. If he gets up and moves around, it’ll remind him that he’s short on options and Dean’s a cat, and their lives are so screwed right now.

Suddenly, there’s a hard weight on his chest, and Sam can’t breathe with the press of Dean’s hard front paws pressing into him as he hops up. On all fours, Dean stands on Sam’s chest and looks at him, eyes still sad but not as wide as before. Dean sighs as his body drops back on his hind legs.

Sam’s breath catches with not only the image, but the mass pressing at his lungs, centered right on his sternum. He shifts a little and slightly smiles at the way Dean flinches and rises up with the movement. When Sam feels more comfortable, he brings his hand up to Dean’s back and squeezes lightly.

“Sorry, there.” Once Dean settles back down, Sam squeezes again before rubbing his fingers over the soft, orange hair at Dean’s side. “You’re tiny, but dude, those legs are digging right into me.”

Dean lightly steps forward, as if testing the angle of Sam’s chest, and then he lowers himself to lie across the center of Sam’s chest.

There’s instant relief, and Sam drops his head back to the mattress, but he doesn’t let go of Dean. He closes his hand over Dean’s back then drags his fingers up and down a few inches, just light rubs that may be weird in any other situation, but comfort him instantly. Dean’s hair is smooth beneath Sam’s calloused hand, and the thought that this would creep either of them out comes and goes so swiftly that Sam just keeps on petting his brother.

He figures they’re not lost from one another when Dean sets his chin down, turning it against his paws. Dean’s not ready to move, and Sam most definitely doesn’t want to. He’s mentally and physically drained from all the solo work, and his brain is far too packed to research more tonight.

He’s not sure he’s ready for sleep just yet, but then Dean starts purring. The steady vibration seeps through his shirts and into his skin, thrumming against his easing heartbeat and spreading over his chest. It’s probably pathetic how quickly it calms him, but he can’t care. It lulls him right to sleep.

When Dean was four and some change, Dad charged him with watching his little brother. For the next eighteen years, he did just that. Even if he gave attitude and sometimes tried to leave Sam behind in hotel rooms just to get himself a little space, he never backed down from keeping Sam in the corner of his mind. Sam’s four years at Stanford made it hard for Dean to keep that promise, but ever since they’ve come back together, he’s done one hell of a job watching his brother’s back and keeping them both alive and sane.

So fuck all if the only way he could do it now was to sit on his brother’s chest and purr the big lug to sleep.

Dean has standards, yeah. But he’s also a cat and has himself a crapload of limitations.

He’s got an even bigger crapload of questions when Sam wakes in the morning with the happiest frickin’ disposition the kid’s had in his life. Sam could start whistling Dixie and talking to birds, and Dean wouldn’t be surprised given how Sam hurries out of the hotel room with a grin splitting his face all bright and open.

It really is like they’re living in some twisted Disney fairytale. Dean’s a cat, Sam’s racing to … wherever … with a skip in his step and the determination to save them both from the horrible witch who keeps court in a _salon_ , weaving spells on the insecure.

Dean’s firmly set on ignoring any reason he fell victim to this particular case. He’s also dead set on getting back into his body and moving right onto their next case with this one firmly in the rear view.

Forgive him, though, that when Sam returns a few hours later, still with that sunshine smile on his face, that Dean runs from his water bowl in the corner, meets Sam at the table, and launches himself up to the tabletop to see what his brother’s brought home.

Sam’s in jeans, a suit shirt, tie, and jacket with corduroy on the elbows, looking like he’s about to give a lecture on Shakespeare, women’s studies, or whatever the hell he studied at Stanford. If Dean had more than two vocal chords, he would start ripping into his brother for the outfit and hypothesizing what types of chicks he’d pick up dressed like that – or wouldn’t.

But all he can manage is a long _reooowww_ followed by a more curious _mew?_ when Sam empties a bag. There’s a fancy pair of nail clippers and a few grocery store items, but Dean can’t bother identifying them all because Sam’s pulling a glass, square box out and there’s a goddamn butterfly inside.

“So,” Sam says firmly, smile from that morning still in place. And then he starts to ramble. “I went over to Stefan’s apartment and scrounged around. The cats were all sleeping and he was off at work, so it was an easy job. In the bathroom, he’s got these fancy nail clippers that also hold the nails inside, so we’ve got his DNA. And then I ran over to the university and spent a good chunk of time talking to Eddie the entomologist, and after going on for hours about his love for the metaphor of a butterfly’s life – ultimate change in the face of nature – he so kindly handed this sucker over.”

Sam’s waving the case in his hand and grinning right at Dean, and Dean’s convinced Sam’s lost his damn mind.

Dean takes a step back, and another one or two as he realizes the other items on the table are a mixing bowl, whisk, a lime, tweezers, and a crate of eggs. Sam’s set on the spell, and yeah, it’s their only good chance right now – forgoing the horror of Dean having to drink _a pint of dolphin milk_ , and Jesus, could a cat’s stomach even hold a pint of regular milk? – but still, Dean can’t suppress the fight or flight response that’s screaming to _soar_.

“And now, we just need something from you, the hexee,” Sam announces as he clicks the clippers and turns towards Dean.

No fucking way.

There’s too much adrenaline pounding through his tiny cat body, and he won’t let Sam near him with anything sharp.

Dean leaps off the table and races to the other side of the hotel room, but Sam and his giraffe legs carry him to Dean in seconds. He runs between Sam’s feet and rushes to the other corner, leaping up onto Sam’s bed, hopping over to his, and continuing to narrowly escape Sam’s reach.

“Damnit, Dean,” Sam pants as he continues to chase Dean around the room.

In a quick second, Dean runs into the bathroom, and spins back to the door suddenly remembering he’s a freaking cat and can’t slam and lock the door shut like he would any other time his brother might be manically chasing him through the hotel room.

When Sam steps into the bathroom, Dean arches his back, growls low in his throat, and reaches out with his paw stretched wide and his claws slashing the air when Sam’s hand gets too close.

A few attempts and Sam can’t stop flinching away until he finally mutters, “God, Dean, be a bigger baby,” and just grabs Dean around the middle and hauls him up to his chest. He’s clutching so tightly, there’s no room to move and Dean thinks he’ll be smashed in his brother’s death grip.

Death by squishing, it’ll make the headlines.

Sam snags a towel from the bathroom then settles at a dining chair, wrapping Dean up in the towel no matter how much Dean squirms, hisses, or scratches up Sam’s forearms. Dean has no clue what his brother has planned for him, has no want to find out, and he’s determined to wriggle his way out of the towel.

When he frees one paw, he wants to cry in victory, but it’s short-lived. Sam snags that paw tight in one hand and reaches with the other, brandishing Stefan’s nail clippers Dean didn’t realize Sam still had. Before Dean can yank his paw back, Sam clips the edge of one of Dean’s claws.

It burns as Sam nicks something more than nail. He growls and hisses through the steady pulse of pain through his paw followed by actual blood dribbling out of the nail.

“Oh, shit, Dean, I’m sorry,” Sam says quickly. He’s hugging Dean against him now, instead of strangling him with the towel, and Dean swears his intestines will burst with how hard Sam’s squeezing him. Sam at least sounds and looks guilty as he dabs the towel to Dean’s paw and holds with enough pressure to hopefully stop the bleeding but not cut off circulation.

Dean yowls in pain and anger, and when Sam frowns, Dean smiles inside at the continued guilt.

Sam pulls the towel away and pats at Dean’s paw until the bleeding stops. He lightly holds Dean’s neck and his eyes flick between each of Dean’s. “You okay now?”

Rolling his eyes, Dean briefly shuts his eyes so he doesn’t have to experience his third lid clouding his sight. Sam’s looking at him like he’s a wounded animal and … okay, so he _is_ wounded, and an animal, and it’s at Sam’s own hand that he’s in this mess right now. But it doesn’t mean Dean wants Sam taking pity on him for a chipped nail.

“Okay, seems good now,” Sam says as he scrubs his knuckles over Dean’s head.

Dean growls as Sam drops him to the bed then hisses at him for good measure.

But Sam is distracted with the table full of stuff, and he drops Dean’s nail into the mixing bowl along with one of Stefan’s. Dean limps over to the dining chair, slowly hopping up onto it, and watches Sam crack open two eggs and drop them into the bowl. Sam peels back some of the lemon rind and squeezes out a teaspoon or so, and then lifts his shoulders as he carefully opens the butterfly case, uses the tweezers to pull a wing out, and adds it to the mix.

Dean holds his breath as Sam whisks it all together until it’s a sick slosh of thick yellow liquid dotted with nails and butterfly wing. Sam drops his shoulders with a short sigh and nods. “Okay, that should do it.”

There’s an ominous crack of a giant leather-bound text that Sam opens, and while Dean wants to witness the entire ritual, he’s also suddenly kind of – okay, a scaredy cat, yeah, whatever. He can’t bear to watch it all go down.

What if Sam gets it wrong and he turns into something else. What’s a step down from a cat – a rat? A cockroach? Oh Jesus. What if he turns into a butterfly because of the wings? Oh _God_.

Dean’s back to the bed by the time Sam’s found the rhythm of the incantation, and he burrows between the pillows, face smooshed by the cotton and ears effectively covered so it’s nothing but mumbles when Sam’s voice carries faster and louder as he finishes up the third round of chanting.

He clenches his eyes shut, third slimy lid slipping into place, and he prays, oh does he pray, that this will all be over soon.

***

He’s still a cat.

He’s still lying on the bed, plopped down in a huff of annoyance when Sam wouldn’t stop watching and waiting for something to happen. He’s still got four paws with two tucked under him, and when he puts his chin down on his front legs, his whiskers still touch the blanket and make him twitch with a tiny tickle at his cheeks.

This fucking sucks.

Sam taps out a beat at the table, mouth twisting in thought as he stares at Dean. “Where do you think we can get dolphin milk?”

_Reoooow._

Tipping his head in thought, Sam wonders, “How do you even _milk_ a dolphin?”

Very carefully, Dean figures. He growls at his brother for his stupid question.

Sam shrugs pathetically to Dean’s rumble. “We’re kinda out of options here, Dean.”

Dean sighs and turns his face away. He’d rather stare at the ugly, green floral wallpaper than Sam’s ugly, guilty mug.

“Well, shoot,” Sam grumbles, and Dean shifts to watch Sam from the corner of his eye.

Sam spins Jenny’s chain around his fingers and smacks his lips together, repeatedly, getting louder the longer he does it. It’s so fucking annoying Dean's gonna claw Sam’s eyes out.

You know, if Sam wasn’t his only hope.

“Alright,” Sam sighs and stands. He tosses the necklace down at the bowl holding the spell’s ingredients, kicks his chair back into place, and walks to the door. Pausing, he glances at Dean, and Dean actually takes a moment to look back at him. “You think I can force Stefan to reverse it?”

Dean rolls his head against the mattress and gives Sam a sideways look.

Sam opens the door and smacks the frame as he leaves.

As Dean flexes one front paw, he growls at it. He’s not sure he’s grateful for the space, but it’s not like he can stop Sam from leaving anyway.

There’s no point denying it: Sam’s stumped. He has no clue what could really be done to save Dean from spending the rest of his years as a cat. He’s not looking forward to the continued miscommunication, having to take Dean outside for the bathroom – because he is _not_ carting a kitty litter box from town to town – or cleaning up hairballs for another day, a week, or year. Or seven years, he supposes, in cat – err, Dean years.

Add on that he’s so distracted by the defeat of that spell not working that he’s missed his turn and winds up pulling down the wrong street, heading now away from Stefan’s apartment, rather than to it.

Dean’s last look – albeit muted by a face full of fur – had said more than enough about his confidence in Sam being able to convince Stefan into reversing the curse. But maybe he can barter with him?

It takes a handful of turns down one way streets to finally find his way, and by now he’s absolutely frazzled and unable to keep all too quiet when he marches up the stairs to the right floor. With his trusty lock pick set, he finagles his way inside, softly closes the door, and turns to a dozen cats.

They’re all standing at attention in the living room – orange tabbies, black coats, Siamese. On one hand, Sam considers the ease of this moment. He’d been planning on nabbing one or two, having read that Bestat became overly protective of her children and figuring that Stefan might be as well. They’re all standing here, just waiting for him to do something. On the other hand, there are a dozen cats perfectly lined up as if ready for battle, and they’re just ten feet away from him, dozens of tiny claws poised to attack.

He shuts down any hopes for a quick get away before any of them start clawing up his legs and back, and Jesus, he wasn’t really afraid of cats before, but a dozen of anything facing you down will make you reconsider a few things.

His heart is beating far too fast to register anything else going on, until he hears the distinct _click-clack_ of nails coming near him. He leans forward to peek into the hallway that leads to the bedroom and there’s Stefan, draped in fine silken fabrics, walking barefoot towards him.

Another glance to Stefan’s feet and Sam spots sharp claws in place of toenails, and they’re clicking on the polished hardwood floor as he strolls into the living room.

“My favorite federal agent,” Stefan grins, and Sam can tell that Stefan’s just mocking him. “Where is your brother?”

Sam twists his mouth so he doesn’t smart off and let Stefan know that he’s getting under Sam’s skin with this whole charade.

Stefan snaps his fingers, long claws clicking together there, too. “Oh, he must be home napping.” He crouches down beside the cats and strokes his fingers over a Persian at his feet, his own pointed claws thread through the feline’s long, white hair. “We do love our catnaps. Don’t we, Melinda?” he asks it, scratching just behind the cat’s ears, eliciting a long purr. “All my beautiful creatures in one place.” Stefan suddenly looks up. “Especially Jennifer. She’s one of my proudest creations.”

“Yeah? What about her?”

Tipping his head, Stefan grimaces. “You two fools were getting too close, so I let her out to slow you down a little. Or at least Dean. How’s it been working solo, Sam?”

Standing his ground, Sam remains silent and runs a mental tally of the weapons he has on him. Maybe he’ll just jam his knife right in Stefan’s chest so he can avoid the mocking monologue and exposition. He knows what’s going on and why, understands how Dean fell under the spell, and at this point, he’s pretty sure that Stefan won’t stop until he’s outright shut down. Sam doesn’t care how it happens, he just wants his damn brother back.

As Stefan straightens and regards Sam, he sniffs the air, and twelve other pink noses follow suit. “You … you’re …”

“I’m what?” Sam mumbles, doing everything he can to not smell his own shirt.

“You’re scared. I can smell it,” he finishes with a sly smile.

“How about we save each other some time and blood. You tell me how to get my brother back and I won’t carve your heart out.” Sam figures he’s now speaking for Dean, like Dean, because he hasn’t heard his voice in so long.

Stefan pulls back at Sam’s outburst and clucks his tongue. “Oh, Sam, so angry. Let’s go back to scared. You’re much more beautiful that way.”

“What’re you ...” Sam mumbles as he tips his head. Then he shakes it, because this is not what he’s here for. He can’t be convinced to think of looks at a time like this. “No! ” he insists. He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out his pure silver blade, clutching it tightly in his left hand as he widens his stance. “We’re not discussing that. We’re here about my brother.”

Stefan smiles and it looks strangely genuine, lighting up his handsome face and – _NO_ Sam yells at himself this time. No more handsome talk!

“I wish I could help you, but I’m a little busy taking care of my litter here.” Stefan picks up a dark grey and black stripped tabby and bundles it in his arms. His long claws stroke over the top of its head in a steady path from its nose, between its eyes, and back to its ears. It’s all very James-Bond-Dr.-No-ish.

Sam’s sure he’s got his confused, twisted face on, but he doesn’t really care. On a rush of adrenaline, Sam sweeps up another cat, caramel colored and spotted with dark chocolate patches. “Yeah? You so busy you can’t save one of your kitties?”

“Oh come on, Sam,” Stefan sighs, but he still seems amused. “What’re you going to do with her? Bring her home for Dean to play with? They’ll probably get at it within a day and then she’ll just birth their very own litter. And won’t that be fun? Hunting with nine cats in tow.”

As an empty threat, Sam puts the knife to the cat’s head.

Empty or not, Stefan tenses and gives Sam a long look. “What’re you doing?”

Sam smirks and lightly shakes his head. “Are you afraid now?” Sam doesn’t have any want to hurt them, he wants to turn them back into humans, but this is the best warning he can manage.

Stefan’s jaw clenches and his fingers flick in and out, claws clacking against each other. Then he spins to the cabinet behind him, snatches something off the surface, and shakes it. That movement commands all attention of the cats and Stefan smirks just before he tosses it at Sam. Sam grabs the thing in his palm and he narrow his eyes to see it’s a stuffed mouse. It smells, quite strongly. Musk and weeds mix in his nose, and he figures it’s catnip, figures it’s harmless.

Until the cat in his arm starts to groan, a gravelly sound that whirls up into something stronger. The sound is purely animalistic, and Sam stares as its eyes widen larger than should be possible.

“Good luck, Sam,” Stefan says with a smirk, and once the cat strikes Sam’s arm, he runs into the bedroom.

Sam yelps in surprise, and then pain when she does it again and scratches through the cuff of his jacket. She keeps clawing at his wrist, breaking skin across the back of his hand and he drops the cat to all fours. But that’s not enough, because now the other eleven are on him, scratching at his legs, jeans ripping under their attack, and trying to _climb_ his pants.

He fumbles a few steps back, but they keep jumping and clawing at him, tearing at his pants and scratching his legs. His only hope is to jump up onto a nearby decorative stool. It’s tiny enough that only his feet cover the surface, yet high enough the cats leap up but never reach him.

The front door slams open and Dean skids into the room. Sam just gawks and Dean stares back, eyes flipping between Sam and the cats at his legs.

It’s _Dean_ , in his familiar human body, and Sam could rush to him. He could haul Dean into his arms and squeeze the life outta him just because it’s his brother again.

But then Sam’s brain runs away on him, wondering how he left Dean as a cat and now he’s a human standing in Stefan’s apartment where a dozen other girls are still cats.

“What’re you _doing_?” Dean yells at him.

“Dean?”

Dean comes at him, grabs the catnip mouse, and throws it across the room to distract the cats. They all run onto the couch and rip the fabric as they fight over one another to reach it. “Yeah, me Dean, you Sam.” He rolls his eyes and tugs on Sam’s jacket to pull him off the stool and down the hall. “ _Jesus_ , you know how to finish a fight or what?”

Sam stops and yanks Dean to a stop. “Wait, wait, wait. How’d you …? How do I know …?”

“That it’s me?” Dean asks, all pissy and incredulous. “Dude.” He lifts one hand and wiggles his hand. “Opposable thumbs. Eh?” he adds with a grin. When Sam rolls his eyes, Dean grabs at his coat and pulls. “Let’s go, before Garfield gets away.”

In the bedroom, Stefan’s loading up a suitcase, zipping it shut seconds before Dean jumps at him. But Stefan turns, slashing his claws across Dean’s face then pushing him clear over the bed to land with a thud on the floor. Sam goes at him, too, but leans away to avoid a hit, dodges to the left and right to stay out of striking distance. Sam stands back up with a small smile. Stefan looks at him for a second and then clocks him in the nose.

No doubt, Sam goes down cradling his face, and Stefan escapes the bedroom.

“C’mon, Sam,” Dean grumbles as he pulls Sam up off the floor.

Sam stumbles to follow, wincing with the pain in his nose. They run into the living room and this time, Dean successfully tackles Stefan to the floor, elbows and knees knocking hard on the wood floor as they tumble over each other.

Dean lands a solid jab to Stefan’s cheek, forcing Stefan to roll away. Sam shoulders his way into the mess, does just as he’d pictured earlier when Stefan was expositioning his way through a horrible villain monologue, and jams his knife right into Stefan’s heart.

Stefan’s back arches and he releases an inhuman growl. As his body sags back to the ground, eyes flickering from hazel to black then slivering to just a slit of gold, his noise winds down to a yowl, sliding into a fractured purr.

Sam stands over him with his shoulders punching up and down with heavy breaths. He watches Stefan and cringes at how the claws on the man’s hands and toes retract and a slimy film slips over his eyes before they completely close. He keeps on watching to make sure Stefan doesn’t move, and then lightly toes at Stefan’s knee, but there’s no response.

A slap at his shoulder makes him flinch, then he breathes easy when it’s his brother looking at him. Dean’s mouth curls into a smirk and he tips his head. He’s looking at _Dean_.

“Sam Winchester,” Dean says with a strange, serious intonation, “The Cat Slayer.”

Sam shucks Dean’s hand off of him, and he huffs. “Can’t you go back to being a cat? When you couldn’t talk?”

Dean smirks and pats Sam’s cheek. “Aww, Sammy. Didn’t ya miss your big brother?”

“Just glad I don’t have to take your ass out to piss anymore.”

There’s a moment where Dean looks down, and when he looks back up, he winces and shakes his head. “Yeah, let’s not talk about that again.”

_Meow_

_Meoooow_

They glance at the couch and all twelve cats are still there, but they’re not attacking each other or the catnip. They’re pretty much just sitting there, on and near the couch, watching Sam and Dean with wide, pleading looks. And meowing. A lot. And it’s less of a threat and more like worry and question.

“We gotta do something with them,” Sam says.

“You ready to kick off another dozen spells?”

Turning back to Dean, Sam widens his eyes. “Yeah, how did you …?”

“I guess you needed something from the _real_ cat fairy. Stefan didn’t turn me. Jenny did. You tossed her necklace into the bowl and …” Dean trails off motioning his hands up and down. “Ta-da.”

Sam flips his mouth down into a thoughtful frown. Makes perfect sense, and he can’t believe he didn’t consider that. “So … what? We grab a fistful of Stefan’s mane and do this until they’re all turned back, huh?”

Dean nods. “Sounds about right.”

***

It’s not easy escorting twelve cats out of the apartment and into the Impala. Even harder to drive with them all whining, yowling, and hissing with every second it takes to stop at a convenience store and then head over to the hotel. Not to mention Dean’s on edge and whimpering for all the holes punched into the upholstery as the cats run around the back seat.

They’re about to start on the first cat and Sam’s ready with the clippers, but Dean gives him a sharp look that makes him pause. “What?”

“Dude, you’re awful with those things,” Dean replies, lifting his finger and showing where his own skin is still pierced from what Sam had done to him earlier that day.

“Like I had any other choice?” he asks in defense.

Dean rolls his eyes, walks over to the nearest cat, and snags his fingers through its fur. He comes up with a few creamy strands of hair and a taunting grin.

“Alright,” Sam sighs. “Next time you’re a cat, I’ll go for the hair.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Dean grunts. He drops the hairs into the mixing bowl along with a few strands of Stefan’s and stirs it all up.

Twelve chants, three times over, and the room is full of women. Twelve tired, scared, _naked_ women, and Dean seems like he’s considering the advantages of consoling each and every one of them.

Sam shoves at Dean’s shoulder. “Go get more towels from the front desk.”

“Whatever,” Dean grumbles, turning away. “Not like you could get lucky anyway.”

As soon as the door closes, Sam looks at each of them, resolutely keeping his eyes above their shoulders. He offers them a meager wave and mumbles, “Hey.”

No one waves. They’re all busy covering their most intimate parts.

Five very, _very_ uncomfortable minutes later, Dean returns with a stack of worn out motel towels and they pass them around the group.

It takes another few hours traipsing around town to bring each woman home.

Outside the very last house, Jenny Hampton marches up the front walk, pauses with a quick look over her shoulder, and grants them a thankful smile and wave as she clutches the towel around her.

Dean shakes his head, bites into his lower lip, and smacks at Sam’s thigh. “We just saved twelve girls in one day, Sammy. What d’you say we hit up Reno and cash in on our good karma?”

Sam manages to not roll his eyes this time, grateful it’s his brother’s hand touching him and not a tiny paw with five claws. No matter what skeezy, underhanded things his brother says, he’s thankful it’s his brother’s voice and not a detached meow.

“I don’t think I can wait that long,” Sam says on a sigh.

“For what?”

“For a drink. Man, you don’t know what it was like.”

Dean tsks hard. “ _I_ don’t know what it was like? I was a frickin’ cat. I had to walk around on all fours, crap in gravel, and lick myself for a shower.”

Sam cringes at the memory of Dean doing just that. “Don’t remind me.”

“Alright, so we both had a bitch of a hard time with this one. We’ll just agree to disagree on who had it harder.”

“Whatever,” Sam says, shaking his head and sighing again. “Let’s just … go get some food and a beer.”

Dean grins and shifts gears to drive out. “Now we’re talkin’.” Once they’re cruising down the block, Dean glances over. “I’m thinking fish fry, what d’you say?”

**THE END**


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